The River Ouse
by Politic X
Summary: Miranda and Andy are on a train bound for nowhere.


**The River Ouse**  
>by Politic X <p>

Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada

Pairing: Miranda / Andrea

Disclaimer: The Devil Wears Prada is not owned by me; I'm not making money.  
>Thanks to my <em>geagte <em>friend and **beta royale: ****sheknowsnofear **about whom enough good things cannot be said.

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><strong>Summary: Miranda and Andy are on a train bound for nowhere. <strong>  
>From the New York Times, 1941: LONDON, April 19 - Dr. E. F. Hoare, Coroner at New Haven, Sussex, gave a verdict of suicide today in the drowning of Virginia Woolf, novelist. Her body was recovered last night from the River Ouse near her week-end house at Lewes.<p>

_"Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!"_

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I noticed her immediately. It wasn't her white hair, which brought me up short when I did get a look at it. It was her couture. Being poor, and hungering for finery, I work my fingers to the bone, sewing garments for my Charlie, and he for me. We hope to make it big someday, but for now we window shop and make grand plans.

I was trying to guess her designers when the conversation drew me in, and I forgot about such stuff.

There was a man in a gray suit. I should have seen him first, because he was quite good-looking. He was staring at someone in the back of the train. I peered around as nonchalantly as I could, and found the focus of his attention – a girl, in her early twenties. "Bingo," the man murmured.

The woman standing opposite - my woman, in the couture - held a handrail and followed his gaze. "Pardon?"

He glanced at her briefly and inclined his head toward the back of the train.

She must have seen what he saw, and must have thought what he thought, because her lips pressed together in a thin line. "I'm not on call, you know," she muttered.

"You're always on call."

She rolled her eyes at him. She had blue-gray eyes and hair so white it seemed she must be old. But her arrogant face was practically unlined, and not in a facelift or Botox kind of way. It made her age hard to guess.

She had the haughtiness of someone older than the fine fellow in the suit, and he was in his thirties. She was pretty, in an uptight, old-fashioned way. Something about her look reminded me of an advertisement I'd seen from the 1940's. Her tall pumps (Perugia), slim skirt (Valentino), long blazer (Chanel), and emerald blouse (unknown) harkened to a bygone era. These weren't knock-offs, but she wore them with the careless disregard of the _vieux riche_. A wealthy detective? I suppose.

A moment passed and the man now watched her instead of the girl at the rear of the train. "Well?" he said at last.

"Well what?"

"Are you going to take her in?"

The woman in the emerald blouse scowled. "I can't exactly take her anywhere at the moment, can I?"

For some reason the expression on the man's face appeared smug. He was as handsome as the woman, but tension made her more captivating. She looked like she could claw his eyes out, yet she stood there, still as a statue, holding the safety rail. She coughed then, turning my way, and under the cough I heard the word "pussy." I almost chuckled, despite the tension in the air.

They passed the next few minutes in silence, until the train began approaching Hallowford Station. The woman looked guarded. She reestablished her grip on the safety rail.

"You'll take her in, then?"

"Yes, Frederick. I'll take her in at my stop." Her voice was cold. "Does that suit you?"

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Make sure you do." And when the doors opened, he exited.

My stop was next, but I wanted to see if she'd follow through, because everything in her behavior suggested she wouldn't. I remained in my seat.

It was another fifteen minutes before the train approached the couture woman's stop. I only knew because she began towards the rear of the train slowly, though we were near the back. The young woman watched her warily, clutching a purse the size of a briefcase. Her large eyes darted to the door, and then scanned the seats, seeming to monitor the other passengers, though her eyes never lit on me, before landing on the woman in the emerald blouse again.

They knew each other, that was certain. The haute couture woman stood for a moment staring at the younger woman - who was resplendent in Halston - before taking a seat beside her. They spoke in low voices, the younger woman's head bent. Their exchange seemed to be heated. The Halston woman flung her hand out in a dramatic gesture, only to have her bag almost tumble from her lap. Struggling to catch it, I noticed how the veins in her hand, the muscles in her forearm stood out, as if the purse was very heavy. I imagined it full of gold, and she on the run, trying to make her escape. The woman in haute couture would be her mother, I supposed.

This theory worked fine, until things became stranger. The woman with the white hair missed her stop - didn't seem to notice, actually, so engaged was she in passionate conversation with the younger woman - and then they kissed. Still, I was sure this was a mother-child reunion, as the older woman began kissing the tears tracking down the younger woman's face. But then the younger woman turned her head, and the real kissing began.

I'm not embarrassed to watch people - I figure what they do in public is available for everyone to view - and this had me flummoxed and further intrigued. They argued more. The young woman began talking loudly enough for me to hear, though the older still spoke quietly. The things I did hear began piecing the puzzle in place, later when I looked back on it. The young woman said:

"It doesn't matter if he knows you saw me, Miranda. You can't outrun me. Just tell him I escaped."

And:

"They won't find me again, anyway, no matter how long they search. It ends today."

There was murmuring as the older woman - Miranda - placed her hand on the younger woman's, and apparently tried to reason with her. Then the conversation became dramatic once more as I heard Miranda's voice clearly saying: "Andrea, you must turn yourself in. It's the starting point."

Andrea disagreed. "No it isn't!" she fairly shouted. She was so loud I turned to see if anyone else was listening, but a couple merely glanced back then involved themselves again in their newspapers. "They'll hang me, Miranda. Don't you understand? I'm dead."

I gripped my seat. I wasn't sure what the young woman had done, but I wanted them to get off the train together and go home and work it out.

The young woman's face turned resolute, as she calmed down. "The only way is for you to come with me. If you come with me, I can get us out of the country." Her voice sounded tired, like they had discussed this previously, like it was an old argument. "Otherwise, I'm dead. I'm not letting you turn me in."

Miranda made to protest.

"Don't worry," Andrea said, and then everything happened quickly.

I saw a gun, tiny as a toy. There was a pop, so unremarkable that no one even turned around to look. I was shocked and stared at the blood, at the one woman, dying, at the other, weeping.

The train stopped, and the one woman exited, and the other lay there. The purse had fallen to the floor, forgotten, and out of it tumbled stones. I was shocked and stared, and no one even turned around.

/end


End file.
